Seven Sherlock Christmas Drabbles
by shooting-stetsons
Summary: Written as a gift for burninganchors. Sorry it's up late. Features crossover in Ch2, and also has a The One You Win universe chapter!
1. 2006 Secret Santa

_SH._

Sigh.

Of _course_ she drew the Freak.

Why was he part of the Secret Santa anyway? Waste of office supplies, that.

"He's a part of the team, Sally," Lestrade scolded her when she tried to protest. "Besides, we had an odd number."

At her continued glare he floundered from side-to-side. "I know, Sal. Trust me, I know. He's a pain -"

"- he's a _junkie_ -"

"- and a bit opinionated -"

"- who thinks the world revolves around him -"

"- but would we have gotten anywhere without him?"

"- and -!" She broke off. "What?"

Lestrade ushered her into his office. "Think about it. If he hadn't stepped in on that burglary case we would never have gotten the reputation we have now." He crossed his arms and leaned back against his desk with one hip, eyebrow raised pointedly. Ugh. Sally hated it when he was right.

"Yeah, whatever."

She crumpled up the slip of paper and threw it at Lestrade's face before stomping off.

What do freaks like, anyway?

-

First she went to Soho, thinking that perhaps she could find some little oddity that might catch the Freak's interest, but every time she imagined giving anything to him, all she saw was his inevitable disdain. He never talked about what music he liked, or telly programs he watched, or the kind of books he read. Despite his obvious bad habits, he was never in want of decent clothes, and probably wouldn't accept something so personal from her anyway.

A lady in a shop kept asking if she wanted a Lucky Cat.

Sally was doomed.

The weeks leading to Christmas flew by too quickly, even as Sally continued to half-heartedly look for a gift for the Freak. Things got busy for her, getting something for Anderson that wouldn't make her little crush on him seem too obvious, finding something small enough for Lestrade that he wouldn't object, a little trinket for her aging grandmother that didn't cost too much because - to be painfully honest - she wouldn't need material things much longer, and before she knew it Christmas Eve was upon her and so was another murder.

People were exchanging gifts all around, just in case they didn't see one another on the morrow, forgetting for a moment that they were only together because some poor sod had died. And there in the middle of it all stood the Freak, glaring around with disdain while others exchanged greetings. He threw a pair of hideous wooly socks at Lestrade before stalking to the body.

"Wait, you drew me?" asked the DI, stunned. "And you actually did something?"

Wet flurries started to fall as the Freak looked up from his inspection. "It is a social custom, yes. I'm not completely deficient."

It felt distinctly like someone was closing a fist around Sally's chest as Lestrade shot her a pointed look. "And, er, did you get anything from your Secret Santa?"

The Freak snorted. "What does anyone on this planet have that I could possibly want or need?" he darkly muttered before standing and brushing himself off. "You're looking for the second cousin; he used a Menorah." Before Lestrade could ask how he did it the Freak was gone, and Sally felt like crap.

To make herself feel better, the next afternoon Sally baked sugar biscuits and made up a plate to bring to the Freak's flat. Chances were he wouldn't be there anyway, so she could leave them with a note explaining she hadn't been able to bring them to a crime scene. Even freaks had to have families to spend the holiday with, right?

She picked her way through the detritus lining the stairs to the dirty little flat on Montague Street and was about to set the plate outside the door when she heard a crash inside. He was home? And apparently under attack, or so it sounded. The doorknob turned easily in her hand, and the door itself glided open without a squeak.

"Hello?" she called, looking around for the source of the crash. "Anyone home, or am I interrupting a burglary?"

From behind the punctured and acid-stained sofa crawled the absolutely-pitiful form of the Freak in a purple dressing gown and ratty pyjamas. "What do you want?" he rasped. It sounded like he'd just swallowed a pound of sand, and there were dark circles around his bloodshot eyes.

Swallowing and taking another step in, Sally made herself more visible to the angle he was at and held the plate aloft. "I brought...are you okay down there?" She set the plate on the first flat surface she could find, carefully ignoring the mess for anything she might not want to see, and moved around the broken armchair to kneel by the Freak's side. He had closed his eyes and was breathing shallowly, but didn't seem to be ODing; he was just lying on the floor with hands folded tight across his stomach. She couldn't help thinking he looked very sad.

"Don't need your pity," he muttered, turning his head away.

Right. She grabbed him under the armpits and dragged his alarmingly light frame up onto the sofa and shoved the plate of biscuits into his lap. "Then stop feeling sorry for yourself," she snapped. "You're not high, I can tell; you're just in a strop. Now sit down, shut up, have a biscuit, and we're gonna watch Connie Prince."

The Freak groaned. "I'm deleting this whole affair first thing tomorrow."

"Fine with me, as long as you keep it stored long enough to tell Lestrade I came by so he doesn't bite my arse off." She propped up her feet on the rickety coffee table and switched on the telly, which had to be covered in at least a quarter-inch of dust.

For three full minutes of Connie the Freak stared at her. Then, he took a biscuit and nibbled contemplatively on its edge before nearly devouring the rest of it whole. "Your baking skill suggests an aptitude for chemistry," he commented.

"Thanks, Freak."

Ten minutes later he fell asleep on her, and she just didn't have the heart to move until she was certain he wouldn't wake again.


	2. A Family Christmas  2013

John and Sherlock were just affixing the skull to the top of the tree when Mrs. Hudson poked her head in the door. "Yoohoo! Sherlock, there's a young lady to see you; shall I let her in?"

The consulting detective did not even bother raising his head from a tangled bit of tinsel. "I'm not taking cases today," he monotonously announced. Then a young woman's accented voice cut up the stairs.

"Let me in, you fucking asshole!"

John's eyebrows shot up, but Sherlock smirked. "Alright, she can come in," he said, and before Mrs. Hudson could turn fully to the door an alarming-looking young woman was tromping in. She had short scraggly black hair hanging loose around her pallid face, one of two bleached eyebrows pierced, a pierced lip, two piercings in her nose, and that was all John could see with her hood up. When she lowered it, he found at least two more piercings in each ear and a wasp tattooed into her neck. She looked remarkably like Sherlock, really, only with darker eyes and more holes.

"Hey-hey. Can I have something to eat?" she asked in lieu of greeting.

Sherlock silently beckoned her into the kitchen; she unceremoniously dropped her backpack into John's empty chair and trudged in. They could hear her digging through the cupboards without regard for any of Sherlock's experiments.

Before John could ask, Sherlock had an answer. "Her name's Lisbeth and she's my half-sister by our mother; she lives in Sweden."

"Right. Okay. But your parents aren't divorced."

There was an inelegant snort from the door as Lisbeth stomped back in with a bowl of Muesli. "Your milk's gone off," she announced before taking a dry bite and sitting in the chair with her backpack. "Again."

Sherlock tucked his hands in his pockets and turned to the younger woman - girl? How old was she, anyway? "This is John, my flatmate."

"I know."

Oh, good, another bright one. Still, no reason not to be polite. He held out his hand. "How do you do?"

She didn't move from her seat or tear a shred of attention away from her Muesli. "Fine."

Before the silence could last more than a few seconds Sherlock started speaking to his sister in fluid Swedish, plucking a small brown-paper package from under the tree and tossing it to her. She caught it with a look of wary surprise, and then stuck it in the pocket of her hoodie before digging a book-sized package from her backpack and tossing it back.

"I have nothing for you," she frankly told John. "I apologize; I've been busy and hadn't realized brother's relationship with you had..." her lips curled, "blossomed."

A blush rocketed up John's neck and face. "It's fine."

"Did you get something for your father?" asked Sherlock. Lisbeth snorted disdainfully. "Right. Your stepmother?"

"Died this morning."

"Your guardian?"

"The good one had a stroke and the new one is a pig."

Sherlock nodded. "Fair enough. Will you stay for dinner?"

She shook her head. "No, Mikail and _Anita fucking Vanger_ are expecting me in ten minutes." As she spoke she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one up, offering the pack to Sherlock, who declined. "Ah, yes. You quit. Is this acceptable?"

"Fine."

She finished her cigarette sitting in the windowsill, took up her pack, and at last minute awkwardly kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "Thank you."

"I love you too," replied Sherlock, and walked her to the door. When he came back up he picked up his violin and watched Lisbeth vanish down the street. "My sister has had a difficult life, John. It's good to see her happy."

If that strikingly dark woman was Lisbeth on a good day, John wasn't sure he wanted to see her bad days. But if Sherlock said she was happy, then perhaps there was hope yet.


	3. Holiday Reunion 2028

-2016-

"Daddy, Papa, wake up!"

The not-so-tiny ball of energy John and Sherlock called their daughter plowed into the bed before crawling up its length and laying on top of them. They woke up with surprised grunts, but at least John didn't reach for his gun.

She beamed toothlessly down at their groggy faces. "Daddy, Papa, Christmas came!" Then she was racing back out to the sitting room to wait impatiently until they managed to get dressed and find the camera. It was their first Christmas together, after all; an occasion to be remembered.

Watching Jessie open her presents was more fun than exchanging gifts with one another, especially when their girl ripped open a remote-controlled K-9 and looked ready to scream. She flung herself at Sherlock, and John snapped a photograph before the moment was lost.

-2028-

"Papa, wake up; Christmas came."

The voice that came through the door was comfortingly reassuring. John rolled over in bed and stared at the unoccupied pillow for a moment before smiling up at his daughter. "Merry Christmas, Jess."

"Merry Christmas, Papa. Don't forget to do your stretches or you'll get no breakfast."

"Yes, I know."

"Alright, just checking. I know how Dad always-" She broke off, averted her eyes and escaped to the kitchen.

It had been tree years ago, almost to the day.

He did his stretches to the smell of vegan bacon cooking - Jessica was on another health binge, then - and joined her in the kitchen when he was finished. "So, what's new, what's been going on with you?" he asked between forkfuls of egg replacer and fake bacon.

Jessica shrugged and kept staring at her food. "I've started seeing my therapist again."

"Therapist? Since when have you got a therapist?"

"Since Dad died."

He blinked as, once again, the pangs hit. "Right. Sorry, I, ah, guess I didn't…"

"It's okay, I understand. You've been going through a lot."

He cleared his throat painfully and took a bite of toast to avoid talking for another moment. "So why…why are you going back? To your therapist?" he asked.

Jessica sighed. "Because I'm depressed, Papa. The holidays always depress me."

The toast fell from his numb fingers. "Right." Was he supposed to say he was sorry? He was the only person she saw on the holidays, after all.

Her hand reached across the table and grasped his. "But…I've got an audition next week," she said in more optimistic tones. "They're looking for monsters for the new series of Doctor Who."

"Good, Jessie, that's good."

"Mm."

Silence descended again, lasting for several minutes before the doorbell rang below. John paused to see if Mrs. Hudson was up yet - she liked to have a lie-in on Christmas, and most other days now she was getting on in years - and jumped when he heard the landlady open the door and let out a shriek.

Jessica was on her feet before him, racing to the stairs to see if Mrs. Hudson had been attacked. John got up much slower, but his old reflexes kicked in when Jessica fumbled and fell on the stairs with a gasp so strong she choked. He grabbed a kitchen knife and ran down the stairs.

And stopped.

And Sherlock smiled.


	4. Fifth Christmas 2015

"John! John, wake up!"

He groaned and rolled over, reaching blindly for his glasses.

"Whutimisit?" he murmured drowsily.

"It's just gone half-four."

"AM?"

"If it were PM, don't you think you'd have been awake?"Thin hands reached out and gave him a jostling shake. "Wake up! We've a case; a brilliant, strange, _interesting_ case! If this weren't proof that Christmas is magic, I don't know what is!"

He dashed out of the room to get dressed, and John smiled. Somehow, he had a feeling it wouldn't have felt quite like Christmas without a good murder.


	5. Staff Party 2010

"Is there anything in particular you'd like this year?" Mycroft had asked, and she'd said no.

There was nothing she wanted that he could acquire for her.

"Anyone you'd like taken care of?"

Not in the way he imagined.

"Any...favors?"

God, no.

She went home and sat alone in the dark, watching lights flicker on and off outside the window and listening to carolers as they traipsed down the street. After an hour or so she turned on the telly and curled up tighter, sighing her way through _Miracle on 34th Street_while wrapped tightly in the duvet from her bed that had migrated to the sitting room in the past week. She wasn't a fan of beds that were empty and too cold at this time of year.

Other than occasional treks to the bathroom and kitchen she didn't leave her chair, staring at the telly even when it wasn't turned on and listening to indulgently depressing 80s punk music. Sometime near midnight on Christmas morning, she pulled out her dead Blackberry, plugged it in, and sent Mycroft a text.

_Lois Brealy._

Twenty minutes later there was a knock on her door, and there he stood with nothing but his umbrella and a scarf. He looked pale and shocked, even so long after the fact.

"Do you really mean it?" he asked breathlessly.

She nodded, and stepped aside to let him in.

They both received exactly what they wanted.


	6. Milestones 2012 and 2014

Their second Christmas, John's smile could burn up the sun.

"Oh, Sherlock, let's call him Gladstone."

Their fourth, and Sherlock's could tear apart an entire solar system.

"Oh, John, _yes_, you sentimental idiot."


	7. Victory 2067

There is a cottage in the countryside with matching wicker rocking chairs set on the front porch, though they are hardly used during the cold winter months. A kettle is whistling far inside, but they're both hard of hearing nowadays and don't really go by ear anymore, and instead just wait ten minutes and check.

"Tea's on," John calls through the steam.

He shuffles through into the sitting room and places Sherlock's chipped but still favorite striped mug on the coffee table before sinking into his chair with a sigh. His joints ache up in the cold.

The clock strikes midnight; Sherlock's hand reaches across the gap between their chairs and grasps John's.

"Merry Christmas, my love."

John kisses him and grins, because he knows neither of them are spring chickens, knows it will be their last together, and it is just _perfect_.


End file.
